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White as Lightning	By : sothis Category: Final Fantasy VII > General Views: 616 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-White as Lightning
- 1
Author: Faeline
Title: (It's a working title, really) White as Lightning
Archive: Here, my site, Fandomination. Anywhere else, just let me know.
Notes: I began this a few years ago and it's been sitting on my hard drive ever since. I thought, perhaps, if I posted it that I might be inspired to finish it.

White as Lightning

It is a sleepless night.


I walk alone at an ungodly hour of the morning; sleep teasing the edge of my consciousness like an elusive lover teases flesh. Velvety tongue, and hard teeth, and soothing ectoplasmic caresses along the whirling impulses of my brain. I can�t hope for sleep this evening, not with the vivid, verdant energy rushing through my
veins, throbbing low and steady in my bones, just beneath pale flesh.

So I walk. Taking the stairs from the floors above, heading toward one of the more useful amenities of the tower; the company gym.


The assumption that I would have the room all to myself quickly disperses as I catch sight of a shadow moving through the half open doorway. I bite down hard on an annoyed groan and draw closer to the door, reaching out to push it wide, hoping to spur the exit of whoever is inside.


My hand freezes scant inches from the metal, eyes peering through the opening, locked on the figure poised in the center of the room.


I have seen him before, prowling about the Tower, but never did I imagine him like this.


He is nude from the waist up, his lower body encased in a pair of loose dark slacks, slender feet bare. He stands very still, muscles taught. His back is turned to me but I can see the slow rate of his breath through the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders, hear sighs on the air. He
raises his arms, parallel to the floor, palms turned to the walls, and then he begins to dance.


He moves like river water, all silken motions and fluid grace, never a faltering step nor awkward sweep of his arms. Perfection in motion. Black silk flows over his shoulders in graceful waves, trailing teasing caresses down golden skin. The movements are lush, sensual, feral. Muscles
smooth and contract beneath firm skin, running in fine trembles down his arms as he sweeps forward, hands cutting the air in hushed whispers.


His eyes are closed when he turns to me, my breath catches in my throat as I watch the tendons pull taught against the lower wall of his abdomen. I�ve no sense of myself as a free being as I watch the arc of his body in the air, the flowing spin tipped with a forceful kick. Oxygen comes again in shallow sips as he drops
silently to the ground.


I�ve no sense of time�or how long I�ve stood there, but I�m brought to myself by the glint of dark amber. He is still once more, feet firmly planted, aat hat his side, palms parallel to the floor. He is looking at me, over his shoulder through the dark silk curtain of his hair. I
can feel the throb of blood against my temples, my cheeks, my ears. My mouth is thirsting, tongue desert dry. His gaze is steady and he seems disinclined to look away.


I�m the first to break contact. Running my tongue over parched lips I back away from the room, turn swiftly and force myself to walk to the elevators, blood singing, sleeplessness forgotten.

�~�~�


He stands so still and silent now, a Wutain doll frozen in time, behind the ShinRa and his pretty son. His gaze never falters and the starched blue suit he wears looks so crisp that it might break into a thousand slivers of fabric if he moves. But I know that those eyes have taken in the room, anything and anyone worth
interest, who might be a threat to body or nation; and the creases in that suit will fold easily, move as fluid as the muscles beneath them should he be forced into action.


This is a man with pride in himself and in his position. Head of the Turks, at his age quite an accomplishment, weighted in responsibility.


I wonder what he�s thinking, standing there, face serenely stoic. What flows behind those dark amber eyes? Does that hard-edged mouth ever loosen? �Those lips must have kissed, must have known the silken pressure of skin. What might it be like to run my tongue along them? To hear him gasp as I roll tender flesh between my teeth and suckle the frail skin graced with the metallic sweetness of blood flowing just below the surface�


Would he bury his hands in my hair and respond? Or would those sleek muscles move against me, thrust me back and away from him as his eyes go from calm to cold?

My quiet musings are interrupted by the beginnings of inept conversation through a gap in the crowd huddled around the small dais.


�Ah, General, good of you to come.�


�Mr. President.�


The squalid, round man clasps my hand tightly. Again I am thankful for the leather gloves that keep his mottled, pink flesh from touching mine. Once he releases my hand I turn my attention to the boy at his side and hold out a slim parcel. Movement behind him, the dark haired man stepping forward slightly, hovering just behind the boy�s chair.
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White as Lightning